


Breakfast in Haven

by Army C (arh581958)



Series: Comfort [7]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Alternative Canon, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Ian-centric, Lactation, Lactation Kink, M/M, MICKEY'S NIPPLES, Male Lactation, Nipple Licking, Nipples, POV Ian, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, can't have too much fluff in the tags, literally tooth-rotting, mentions of bipolar Ian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 11:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8012476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Army%20C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few years down the road, and they've finally gone ahead and done it—leased an apartment together. Ian thinks it’s more than good. Breakfast proves to be more interesting nowadays. See here, Mickey’s been <i>leaking</i>—from his nipples—and they'll need all the privacy that their tiny haven provides. Ian intends to take full advantage of all those thing combined.</p><p>(or: shameless lactating!Mickey that's only a teensy bit porny)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breakfast in Haven

**Author's Note:**

> I realize that the past few stories in this series have all been done in Mickey's POV. I decided to write one in Ian's perspective this time because I want to balance out the two without alternating POVs in one story. It turned out longer than I initially intended. It's a little something-something since people commented how _natural_ Mickey's lactation felt to Ian in the last story. Hopefully, this explains why. So, please, enjoy~  
> 
> **Not Beta Read. Open for Volunteers.**

It’s good that they decided to get a place for themselves. Sure, it’s not a white picket fence type of thing but the shitty apartment in a rundown building with less than reliable heating is better than either of their houses. For one thing, it’s _theirs_ —both their names proudly written on the lease, side by side, because they belonged together. Next, it’s private, meaning that they can do the shit they want when they wanted. It also kept their nosy siblings from prying into their business.

Ian thinks it’s more than good. See here, Mickey’s been _leaking_ —from his nipples—ever since that night a couple of weeks ago. At first, they both thought it’d been a flux or something. Men typically don’t _lactate_ for no reason. He did his research—a man from Sri Lanka was able to breastfeed his two infant daughters after his wife died not three months after giving birth—so it apparently does happen. Men have mammaries and shit there too.

He can’t, though, for the life of him think why Mickey would manifest _that_. Mickey is the farthest thing from the dude with the babies. He isn’t starving; they get cheap-ass take-out once a week and Ian cooks on occasion. He isn’t a father; a quick trip to the abortion clinic for Svetlana helped solved that problem _years ago_. He certainly isn’t a widower either; Ian’s still hasn’t popped the question yet.

The only reason he can think of is _him_. Mickey’s complained about it once or twice—about how Ian loves laving attention on his nipples. Ian can’t help himself. That part of Mickey is his alone. No one else has been able to get the sort of intimate affection he gets when he’s suckling on Mickey’s nipples, sex or no sex. It just gives him comfort.

Mickey lactating for him—wanting to provide for him in a deeper physical way than what’s considered strictly normal—wraps him up in an extra-layer of comfort and assurance that, yes, Mickey Milkovich, Southside Thug and All-Around Badass, loves him a whole lot even if the actual words aren’t spoken too often. He’s all warm and giddy inside just from thinking about it.

“Yo, Gallagher,” cue Mickey’s voice from their bedroom. Ian checks the clock on the wall. It’s seven am, and Mickey doesn’t have work until later today. He’d been hoping that he could coax his boyfriend out of hiding with food then crash before he has to go to class later in the afternoon. It’s good as gold. “You cookin’?”

It’s not even a question. Ian’s pretty sure that the smell of pancakes whiffs easily through the crack under the door. He answers it anyway because it’s Mickey’s version of a good morning without sounding too faggy. His boyfriend’s adorable like that.

“Pancakes!” Ian yells over the clatter and clang of the spatula and the frying pan. “I used all the blueberries that Carl gave us the other day. Before they go bad. I know how you hate wasting food.” He flips the pancakes onto the ready plate. There’s a small stack already on there. He scrapes the last batter off the sides and dolls out the last cake. The lack of batter makes it smaller than the rest. He’ll eat that when it’s done since he doesn’t have classes today.

“Got bacon?” Mickey asks, emerging from their room in his sweatpants and wife-beater. Ian doesn’t miss the crispness of the top and the small wet spot staining the fabric darker. He's also pretty sure that Mickey slept in a shirt last night. Mickey trudges to the breakfast counter and beelines for the fresh coffee pot. There’s a waiting mug beside it and a small jar of brown sugar. He makes himself a cup, dolling out two teaspoons of sugar, then sits on one of the stools.

“Sorry, Mick, we’re out. Used them when we made burgers a couple of nights ago. We’re gonna have to pick-up more when we go grocery shopping again. When’s your next day off?”

Mickey makes a low whining noise. “Thursday,” he grunts into his mug. “You got school then?”

Ian thinks. “I’ve got a class in the morning but I end around twelve, earlier if the professor decides to dismiss early.” The final pancake gets flipped with a little more flourish than strictly necessary. He can’t hide his smile when he hears Mickey mutter, “Show off,” under his breath.

“Order up!” He bellows comically before sliding the plate onto the counter.

Mickey’s got two pancakes on his own plate. He lathers each with an unhealthy amount of butter that’ll all go straight to his thighs, not that Ian’s complaining or anything. It's obvious that he's waiting for Ian before he actually starts eating. He grins when Ian takes the chair beside him and doesn’t hesitate to wring an arm over his boyfriend’s neck to pull the red-head into a good morning kiss. It’s nothing but a peck with closed lips but Ian’s tingly down to his bare toes.

“Good morning,” Ian mumbles, breathing in Mickey’s scent like it’s fresh air. This close, he doesn’t fail to notice Mickey’s slight aversion to having things touch his chest area. “Is it…” He speaks somewhat unsure of himself, “Are you… they hurt?”

Mickey pulls away with red-cheeks. For a moment or two, Ian practically sees the sassy vulgarly worded come back on Mickey’s lips but the brunette acquiesces and simply nods his head. It’s a testament to how far they’ve come. An older version of Mickey would have punched him in the face for even asking. This Mickey, however, albeit shyly, is willing to admit even a small bit of weakness.

“Oh, Mick,” is all Ian can say. He leans over to kiss Mickey on the forehead. “Can I… do you want me to suckle again? It’ll take the tenderness away even for a bit.” They don’t have to do it often. Mickey doesn’t produce copious amounts of milk at the beginning but recently, ever since Ian’s developed a taste for it, that’s changing too.

He knows that his boyfriend’s still averse to the idea of a guy with milk. He also knows that Mickey thinks he’s somewhat of a freak because of it. Frankly, he wants to erase all those bad things from Mickey’s mind because it’s _them_ —when have they ever been normal? Besides, he can wax poetic all he wants about how it’s a manifestation of Mickey love for him but that’s not the way to talk to a Milkovich, especially one Mickey Milkovich.

When Mickey doesn’t response immediately, he goes for a different tactic. “I want to,” he urges lowly into Mickey ear. Sex has always been one of Mickey’s weakest points. If anything, Ian’s learned to use it to his advantage over the years. He’s come to understand that overtly sexual acts don’t necessarily have to have sexual meaning behind them. Sometimes _doing something_ is actually better than saying it.

“Mick,” he whispers, all gravelly and sex-drench in the way that Mickey loves. One hand slides down the curve of Mickey’s spine and cups that gorgeous ass that he loves so much. “Let me suck your tits.” Because vulgarity has always been the Milkovich way, and Ian’s mastered the language.

“Ahh—a’ryt,” Mickey half-grumbles and half-shudders in a failed attempt to feign disinterest. He looks around, on instinct, like one of their pesky sibling would materialize around their apartment any second. Years of ingrained hiding and fear still mars on his conscience.

Ian smooths a hand up and down Mickey’s bare arm. “Relax, Mick, s’just the two of us. We’re safe.”

Mickey relaxes in his touch, then nods. “A’ryt, a’ryt. Breakfast first the you can, uh… nurse.”

Ian knows better than to comment on the terminology. He grins to himself, hands skimming the hem of Mickey’s wife-beater until he can slide a finger underneath the fabric. He licks his lips and leans into Mickey’s space.

“Hey, Mick, how about we do both, huh?”

Mickey inhales deeply at the contact. His blue eyes dilate with arousal. It’s a sign that Ian’s won.

“I—I ain’t doing shit and feedin’ you crap,” Mickey grouches but it’s weak.

Ian cares not about the false bravado. He likes Mickey exactly as he is. “I didn’t say you gotta do that shit, Milkovich,” he says as he boxes Mickey into the counter, using his full height to his advantage as he peers down on his small boyfriend. “So why don’t you get your pretty little ass on the counter and I’ll feed you myself? That good enough for you, huh?” He brushes his noses under Mickey’s jaw, then kisses a sensitive spot right under Mickey’s ear, nipping at the lobe.

Mickey shudders but he chokes out a half-sobbed, “Make me.”

Ian loves a challenge. It’s no small feat to lift 5-foot 7-inch man onto the counter but he does with practiced ease, having done the very same thing on multiple occasions since they first rented the apartment. He likes that Mickey spreads his legs wide automatically to accommodate him.

“There, that’s not so bad, right?” He says, nuzzling Mickey’s collar bone. He breathes in deeply and groans. “God, I love how you smell like you just woke up.”

“That's cause I _just did_. Ayy, ayy, I thought you was gonna feed me, eyy, Gallagher? I ain’t see you gettin’ no fork or syrup.” Mickey complains, wiggling on the counter. Ian can feel a half-chub rub against his stomach. It’s either from Mickey’s morning wood or a new one all-together. He doesn’t mind which one. He’ll take anything that Mickey’s willing to give him.

Chuckling, he reaches for Mickey’s place and squeezes an obscene amount of maple syrup over the top of the buttery pile. He wastes no time taking a fork and cutting into the pancake. He feeds it to Mickey, watching with growing arousal as his boyfriend laps at the tip of the fork with his tongue. Mickey’s actions are no coincidence if his smirk’s anything to go by.

Ian plays along until he purposely drips syrup on Mickey’s top, and pretends that it’s an accident. “Oops, sorry, Mick. Why don’t we just take that off right now and I’ll throw it in the wash?” He wastes no time waiting for Mickey’s reply before he’s pulling the fabric over Mickey’s head.

Mickey shudders, and Ian’s quick to cover his boyfriend’s body with his one—hands, kisses, and everything. When he gets to Mickey’s chest, there’s a sharp intake of breath again. He looks up, eyes asking the question for him, and wait for Mickey to nod. In true Mickey fashion, his boyfriend grips him by the head and brings his face closer to his chest instead of answering.

Ian licks over the sensitive flesh first before taking it into his mouth. Mickey’s skin is warm. He smells like a night’s amount of sweat and the dark musky scent that’s purely _him_. The way he tastes though; despite his aptitude for English back in high school, Ian won’t have enough words in his vocabulary to describe how much he _loves_ it.

Mickey’s milk tastes amazing. It’s different from his cum—so different. It’s sweet on the tongue, and thin like Mickey’s third orgasm after a marathon of sex. He laps at it eagerly but still taking care as not to further aggravate the tenderness of Mickey’s chest. Above him, Mickey’s a whimpering mess with his legs wrapped around Ian’s slim waist. This isn't about sex thought. It might be the farthest thing away from it.

Ian suckles and drinks. His tongue licks along the around the aureoles, tasting skin that’s slightly salty then goes back to the nipple. Mickey’s hands grip his shoulders, squeezing intermittently. It’s their way of silently communicating. It’s better than words. Mickey’s more receptive to touches and body language than words. Ian flicks the other nipple and Mickey gasps.

“Fucker, don’t tease.”

“You love it,” Ian mumbles over the nipple purposefully. The vibrations travel across Mickey’s sensitive bud, and he immediately tastes milk leaking onto his tongue. Ian’s a man of many words. He can fill notebooks upon notebooks about how he feels about this man, and he pours all of than into giving Mickey the comfort that he needs right now.

 _I love you_ , that’s what he says silently in his head while his lips on Mickey's nipples do the talking for him.

Mickey runs a hand through his hair while he nurses. It feels nice. It’s grounding. Ian loves it. While Mickey still keeps his FUCK-U-UP attitude, he’s steadily been growing more affectionate when they’re behind closed doors. Ian saw glimpses of it in their houses—rare instances when Mickey let his guard down—but it’s become even more pronounced now that they live alone. Mickey’s touches are more frequent and tend to linger. Ian’s not sure that Mickey even noticed the change. He sure did. He _loves_ it. He loves that Mickey’s finally being open to himself.

“Gallagher,” Mickey mewls, hands pushing Ian away. His eyes are glazed over and he bites the corner of his lips. “That one’s done, ayt?” It's more a statement than a question, one that Ian understands.

Ian instinctively goes for the other side. He can feel Mickey Junior pressing more intently against his stomach. There’s time for that later. When Mickey’s tits are empty and no longer hurting, he’ll give Mickey Junior the same breakfast special. He intends to take Mickey apart right now, and it doesn’t have to mean getting off on a sexual level. Mickey _trusts_ him with this—to take the tenderness of his chest away. Ian’s ready to more heaven and hell just to give him that.

He suckles on Mickey’s nipple for a long time. He relishes the feel of the small hard bud inside his mouth, and thinks back to a time when he didn’t find comfort in them. He can’t remember a single instance. Before everything happened—the shit about Monica, about Frank, about basically everyone in his family including him—he’s always found comfort in Mickey likes this.

On restless nights, Mickey will take off his shirt despite the cold temperature as a silent offering. There are days when the new meds got the better of him and he couldn’t feel anything—couldn’t make a single human connection—but Mickey will lie in bed half-naked, waiting patiently. Mickey himself, just by his mere presence, chases away the demons in Ian’s head.

Mickey. Mickey. Mickey.

It’s always been Mickey since Ian was thirteen. It’s been Mickey all along despite their ups and down. It’s Mickey when Ian thought his whole world was crashing. Just Mickey is enough to keep him going—to keep him living. He wants to spend the rest of his life with Mickey.

“Eyy, eyy, what happened?” Mickey’s voice breaks through his thoughts. His hand cards through Ian’s hair then cups his jaw. “Whatcha cryin’ for, babe?” He asks. It’s rare for him to use sweet endearments. For Mickey, curses and vulgar words are the way to do things but he changes that sometimes for Ian. “It don’t taste that bad right? That shit ain’t spoiled.”

Ian giggles because it’s the only thing he can do when Mickey’s making fun of his own milk _for his sake_. He’s realized long ago how much Mickey’s changes, not just physically, and how much Mickey’s fought through his own homophobic upbringing to be here with him. Something flutters in his chest and he can only identify it as happiness.

“It’s nothing, Mick,” he says, as Mickey thumbs his tears away. He must look like an idiot right now but he doesn’t care. “Just thinking that I’m happy.” He leans up, because Mickey’s got a few inches on him whenever he sits on the counter, and kisses Mickey on the lips. “I love you, Milkovich, even if you are a grouchy asshole in the morning and a bossy little bottom.”

Mickey pushes him off. “Ayy, 5’7 ain’t small. You just gotta be freakin’ humungous, ayt? And my ass ain’t small!”

Ian laughs, open and free, cupping Mickey’s ass with both hands and giving the buns a firms squeeze. “My mistake. Your ass is going to give J.Lo, Nicki Minaj, and Kim Kardashian runs for their money, and you’re is _all natural,_ babe.” He says, dropping kisses along Mickey’s sternum. 

“A’ryt, a’ryt, enough with the faggy shit. I don’t gotsta work ‘til the afternoon. Why don’t we finish them pancakes then we can work off the calories, ayy, Firecrotch?” Mickey’s voice dips low and seductive. He says it right into Ian’s ear while he rubs his full chub against Ian’s stomach. Kinky little fucker will let Ian bend him over the counter if Ian so much as asks.

Ian has other plans though. It’s a brilliant plan. While Mickey’s looking delicious and absolutely debauched, he can’t help but thank the gods for their privacy. He wants nothing more than to have Mickey right here and now, but he knows his boyfriend regularly undergoes physical exertion as a mechanic already.

“When’s laundry day?”

“Huh, what?” That brings Mickey out of his stupor. “I’m here offerin’ sex and you gotta ask me about freakin’ _laundry_? The fuck, man?” He growls but Ian just sees it as an adorable pout.

“Come one, Mick, I forgot, a’right? Is it tomorrow?”

Mickey stops to think. He’s got the cute expression on his face when he’s thinking that Ian loves so much. Then, after a short wait, he answers. “Ayy, s’tomorrow. Why?”

Ian hauls his boyfriend closer by the waist and grins. “Why don’t you grab our plates, Mick? I’m thinking about having breakfast in bed?”

Mickey’s eyes grow wide, then his pupils are blown with arousal. He strengthens his grip on Ian’s waist. “Just so ya know, you’re changin’ the sheets, ayt?”

“I promise,” he says, kissing Mickey on the nose. “Don’t forget the syrup!” 

There’s pots in the sink and plates left on the counter. No one’s there to tell them otherwise. No one to tell them what do to and what not to do. They often find themselves taking advantage of that fact. Like, right now. Mickey will forever deny that small squeak that escapes his lips when Ian heaves him off the table. Ian wastes no time crossing their tiny apartment in a few long strides and closing the bedroom door behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> Eight stories down, and I'm not close to stopping. It's so far from what I imagined when I wrote the first story. I am so very thankful for all your support and positive feedback~ It's been amazing writing for this fandom and this ship~ Hugs and kisses! 
> 
> If you have a prompt or an idea, you can [INSPIRE ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr. Or [TALK TO ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/ask)~
> 
> As always, **kudos/comments/bookmarks** are all appreciated by this author. I take comments as extra-kudos and I _do_ read the bookmark tags (some are really fun).


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